


Dog Days

by Tuddelig



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, Fluff, Harry Hart is a dog person, Post-Movie, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuddelig/pseuds/Tuddelig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart likes dogs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As a rule, the Harts did not keep pets. Harry hadn't had one, out of convenience and kindness, during the marathon hours of his early career.

"Pick a puppy."

At twenty-four, he has killed men. Has moved like a shadow under foreign skies, wending his way through strange cities to steal their darkest secrets. Unflinchingly, Harry Hart has gazed upon the face of his own death. 

Harry finds himself staring into large eyes, dark and wet, and panics.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, he picks the small brown one, which might be some kind of terrier. Possibly. He remembers thinking that a smaller dog might be more manageable. Remembers hearing somewhere that terriers were intelligent.

Apparently not so intelligent as to recognize boots as poor foodstuffs, Harry thinks regretfully as he retrieves his mangled left shoe from the little bastards tiny, gummy teeth. The thing unfailingly looks like it's world is crashing down around its ears when Harry issues admonishment, which somehow makes Harry feel terrible, even when his socks all have holes gnawed through the toes and his foot locker has been urinated on twice.

It is endlessly following him around, a bafflingly expectant second shadow; inexhaustible. The dog is hell on his grooming, leaving all of his clothes covered in a soft layer of tiny brown hairs, resistant to every method of removal Harry can think of to try.

Surely the enormous physical space the dog occupies must defy the laws of nature, given the thing's modest dimensions. But it is endlessly reeling against the confines of its tiny body, against the borders Harry tries to establish, with a stubborn tenacity Harry has never seen the likes of. 

Within the week, the rule about the dog sleeping on the floor goes the way of Harry's impeccable grooming and the thing spends each night curled at his feet. 

\---------------

After the next written exam Merlin, a large silver-haired square of a man in his late fifties, gives Harry and the dog a once over.

"Good choice, lad," Merlin nods with approval as he collects Harry's papers. "Stubborn, mouthy little buggers, aren't they? But loyal. Fearless as anything. Does he have a name?"

"Erm....No," Harry looks down to the dog. "It does not."

"Right," Merlin's smile shifts into an uncomfortable sidelong look. "How's the training--does he know any tricks then?"

Instead of answering, Harry cocks his thumb and pointer finger, points it at the dog with a "BANG". The dog obediently rolls over on to its back to play dead.

For the life of him, Harry can't figure out why Merlin finds the little trick so funny.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Pickles gets his name.  
> Warning: some non-violent, but unpleasant things happen to the soon to be Mr. Pickles in the chapter. He comes to no lasting harm, and Harry quickly settles things.

In the close quarters of recruitment, England's finest descend into the kinds of juvenile pranks Harry Hart first became acquainted with in the boarding schools of his childhood. This seems to follow similar rules; any perceived weakness or difference was fair game, and Harry's peculiar selection had not gone unnoticed. 

The worst of the recruits is Charles Paulet, a loud, tow-headed bull of a man Harry had taken in instant disliking to. 

Harry returns to the sleeping quarters after a quick evening smoke in the garden and is surprised when he is not greeted by the little dog, but by Paulet's self-satisfied smirk. In his limited experience with the man, Harry has come to believe that Paulet's visage perfectly captures the german concept of de backpfeifengesicht--that some faces suffer in desperate need of acquaintance with a closed fist. 

"It's been a trying day, Paulet," Harry says instead of providing the service that would so obviously benefit both of them. "I don't suppose you'd just tell me what you've done with it?"

" 'It?'" Paulet parrots back innocently. "Oh, you've lost your little dog, have you? Not much of a surprise there--the pup's the size of a rat. There's no telling where he could have gone."

Harry's first instinct is violence. He's halfway across the room to get at Paulet before a muffled whine comes from his footlocker and he falls to his knees by the trunk instead, fumbling open the lock to find--

"You put him in a pickle jar?" Furious, Harry hastily unscrews the lid of the massive glass jar and scoops out the trembling dog, cradling him to his chest while Paulet laughs like Harry's anger is the funniest thing he's ever seen. 

"You think this is amusing?" Harry demands. "He could have died--"

Any possibility of an altercation is forestalled by Merlin's appearance in the doorway: "Paulet! Hart! That's enough. Save it for tomorrow." 

After lights out, Harry spends some time curled protectively around the dog, deep in thought, before drifting off to sleep.

\-------------

Paulet is returning from the water closet well before the 6 am wake up call when he spots Hart's mutt sitting right in the middle of the corridor. 

Like the thing had been waiting there for him, the dog gets to its feet and trots through one of the darkened doorways at the far end of the hall. Paulet, curious and intent on the opportunity to further wind up Hart--who had been far too placid for Paulet's liking since day one--follows. He has the strong suspicion that if he pushes hard enough, Hart will snap spectacularly. 

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can make out the silhouttes of old, abandoned furniture being stored in the small dusty space. 

"Hello Paulet," Harry says from where he is leaning casually against an old oak desk, tucking the dog whistle into the his pocket as the animal settles at his feet.

"Is this supposed to scare me?" Paulet asks, pointing at the dog. "What are you going to do-- sick Pickles here on me?"

Harry smiles, cold, and something in Paulet squirms.

"Actually..." Harry straightens and brushes away the dust from his trousers.

"...that's Mr. Pickles to you."

\--------------------

"Bloody hell, Hart," Merlin sighs as they watch Paulet pack his things into the idling black cab in front of the Kingsman estate. "What did you do to him? We haven't had a voluntary dropout since before my time."

"Paulet's not talking," He turns to Harry, "but I know you met with him last night." 

Examining Merlin's face, Harry sees no sign of anger, only a thoughtful curiosity.

He watches the cab recede down the long drive.

"We had little chat about manners."


	4. Chapter 4

"Shoot the dog."

Harry looks into Mr. Pickle's adoring eyes thinking, retrospectively, that the massive plastic sheeting taped to the floor beneath his and Arthur's wing-backed chairs should have been a fairly large hint. 

It's just a dog, he tries to tell himself. Just an animal. 

And that might have been true in the very beginning but it's not, strictly speaking, true now. Because now Mr. Pickles is Harry's dog. 

Harry has rescued him, shaking and terrified, from the cruelties of Paulet. Has taught the animal to sit and fetch and play dead and lure targets into darkened storage rooms. Has fretted too deeply about him the time he got sick, only to find himself sneaking the thing little table scraps off of his own plate afterwards, too relieved by the recovery to be anything but indulgent.

In turn, the dog has wormed his way into Harry's reluctant affections, returning Harry's admittedly basic care with an uncomplicated and worshipful love the likes of which Harry has never known. Probably undeservingly, Harry thinks, taking the gun from Arthur's hand. 

There has always been a ruthlessness in Harry that he has never quiet understood. A part of him that identified a little too well with the villains of his favorite childhood films and, later, drew sickening pleasure from the necessary cruelties he'd found himself capable of during his military service. It terrifies him, the terrible, unflinching violence that lives in his heart, that he keeps under disciplined lock and key in the deepest part of him. At least in the Kingsmen he can put it to use--a surgeon cutting to heal instead of a sadist bent on self-satisfaction.

He can not allow a dog to stand in the way of all that he has worked so hard for.

Still, he finds himself grateful that at least there will be no pain for Mr. Pickles, no understanding that it was his beloved Harry who caused this abrupt descent into non-existence. 

That burden will fall to Harry's shoulders. 

\------------------

Afterwards, Merlin claps him on the back with a handshake, a celebratory scotch , and a "Welcome to the Kingsman, Galahad." 

When he finally leaves Harry alone with his dog, Harry scoops up Mr. Pickles--too big now to be cradled to Harry's chest like a puppy. 

Harry does anyway, surprised by the intensity of the dizzying, knee melting relief that washes over him as he clutches the warm bundle of happy, wriggling dog to his heart.

I'm sorry, he thinks, stroking the velvety spot right behind Mr. Pickles' ear that Harry knows is his favorite. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Pickles is a holy terror when Harry settles the both of them into his London home. 

The dog is a nightmare on the house's little garden, digging relentlessly at the small patch of grass until it resembles nothing so much as the cratered surface of the moon. And while a tireless prey drive may have been a desirable trait in the breed at a certain period of history, Harry finds it considerably trying when, deprived of vermin, Mr. Pickles very nearly mauls his neighbor's daughter's pet rabbit. 

This presents a problem when the neighbor informs him, clutching her wailing seven year old to her side, that no, they will certainly not be watching Mr. Pickles while Harry is away at the funeral.

\------------------

Merlin dies, beating the Kingsman statistics, of natural causes--a heart attack one wednesday morning, alone in his flat. The service is well attended. 

Harry has trouble adjusting to the idea that the man is gone, keeps expecting to bump into him in the miserable mess hall complaining about the too-weak tea or to hear his voice on the other end of the line during missions.

Which leaves the Kingsmen to discuss their options over glasses of 1815 Napoleonic brandy. Harry makes a suggestion. 

\------------------

Miles away from the peaceful cemetery where they buried Merlin, in the prison that doesn't exist, sits a man.

He is about Harry's age or a little younger, gawky as a teenager but with a hairline that is already beating a hasty retreat to join forces with the whorl of thinning dark hair on the back of his head. He's sitting on the spare, narrow shelf that must serve as the cell's bed, looking up when Harry calls his name. 

The man has a handsome face that still needs a little growing into, but Harry thinks baldness would rather suit him.

"I shouldn't think I need to introduce myself?" The man shakes his head very carefully. He has a spectacular black eye that Harry can see, and all of his movements are so tentative Harry thinks the baggy jumpsuit must be concealing other injury.

"Arthur tells me that you broke into our computer systems like it was child's play." 

The man clears his throat, and his scottish brogue sounds rusty from disuse when he croaks out: "What are you going to do to me?" 

"I'm not going to do anything to you. You, obviously, have no way of knowing this, but it is a beautiful day outside," Harry says, watching the man's eyes narrow with confusion, "and my dog needs walking. Would you care to join me? I have a job opportunity that might interest you."

"What kind of oppurtunity?"

"Have you ever seen the movie 'War Games'?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Why is your dog in a miniature tuxedo?" Merlin asks in lieu of greeting when Harry finally opens the door. "Is that a bow tie?"

"I thought it would amuse the children," Harry explains, defensive and only a little embarrassed as the impeccably dressed Mr. Pickles sniffs Merlin's shoes warily. "Merlin, meet Bones, James Bones."

Christ, Merlin thinks, we're supposed to be world-class spies, as Harry adds: "Thanks again, Merlin. And Happy Halloween."

As Harry slips away to rescue Gawain from god knows what trouble he's gotten himself into, and to no doubt save the world thrice over whilst casually driving beautiful cars and bedding lithesome youths in the process, Merlin and Mr. Pickles eye each other warily. The dog begins to growl. 

Merlin, god help him, grabs the bowl of candy from the stand in the hall when the doorbell chimes, and fights the urge to growl back.

You owe him, Merlin reminds himself--you owe him your life-- as a skinny child of indeterminate sex dressed as a hermit crab demands, with an american accent, if it can have more than one piece of candy. 

"I don't care."

\---------------

Harry returns--sneaking carefully through the kitchen door--before the sun has quite crept over the horizon, oxfords in hand. This is to prevent both the clack of the soles against the tiles of the floor and the blood--not his-- from tracking all over the house. 

He finds Merlin curled into himself on the sofa, snoring gently with the still-tuxedoed Mr. Pickles tucked neatly in to the space between his bent knees and the couch. With utmost care, he sets the afghan around Merlin's shoulders before collapsing into his own bed for a good ten hours--without even showering, which would bother him if he weren't so bone-tired. 

\-----------

He wakes to find Mr. Pickles curled at the usual spot--taking up more space than should be physically possible at Harry's feet--to find that someone had pinned a note to the quilt just below his nose.

'Got called in. Stop feeding your dog table scraps--he's overweight. -- M '

\------------

After that, Merlin is the only person Harry ever asks to watch Mr. Pickles.


	7. Chapter 7

Merlin's not exactly wrong, Harry thinks, considering Mr. Pickles' admittedly rotund physique during a late breakfast one Sunday. 

"Right."

Mr. Pickles looks on in something very close to abject horror as Harry's scraps go--not to their accustomed and rightful place in the dog's food dish--but into the rubbish bin.

"Come along. We're going for a walk." 

\------

"Which one's yours?" Asks an elderly, apple-cheeked woman with a copy of some tabloid or another tucked under one arm.

"Ah....That would be the one ignoring all the other dogs and trying to tunnel out under the fence. This is our first time here, and I suspect that the idea of a dog park is a bit new to him." 

"Mine was the same way. That's just terriers, innit?" She thrusts out a meaty hand to shake. "Mary Pegg."

"Pleasure," He says, pleasantly surprised for the company. "Harry Hart." 

Mrs. Pegg leaves Harry, after an hour of chatting, with a few excellent points of advice about dogs and one rather poor choice of cultural reading material.

"Here," She presses her magazine into Harry's hands upon her departure. "If you're waiting for that one to tire out, I suspect you'll need it-- you'll be here awhile."

"Thank you."

Harry spends the remainder of the afternoon reading, with fascinated disgust, the mildly homophobic article: BIGFOOT CAPTURES LUMBERJACK LOVER--FULL PICTURES ON PAGE TWELVE as Mr. Pickles digs and digs and digs. 

\-------------

The Sunday trip to the dogpark becomes something of a ritual. Mrs. Pegg usually makes an appearance. They overlap for an hour or so for a friendly chat until Mrs. Pegg leaves Harry with another magazine and, occasionally, a bag of frozen beef bones for Mr. Pickles.

Mr. Pegg--Mrs. Pegg explains--is a butcher.

He supposes that the trips, the diet, and the evening walks must be working because Merlin's next, hastily scribbled note (found, taped to his front door after an exhausting 72 hour treck through the underbelly of Shanghai) reads:

'Mr. Pickles seems well-- sleeker and more energy. Enough energy, in fact, to stay up half the night barking at fuck knows what and then proceed to maule a pigeon in front of a small child (your neighbor?) this morning. Has been chucking up feathers intermittently since. Otherwise uneventful. Cheers. --M  
P.S. Why does your pantry consist of nothing except a freezer full of bones????'


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a mission gone awry results in Harry tripping balls. This worries Mr. Pickles. And Merlin, meanwhile, is a bro.

Merlin gets the call on his day off--an idea that is necessarily somewhat flexible given his line of work. 

“Yes? Yes, that’s me. Who am I speaking to--what?”

“Sorry, can you repeat that--He what?”

“‘Tripping balls’,” He repeats flatly. “Oh, is that the technical term for medical professionals such as yourself? No? Then tell me right now exactly what has happened--””

“Of course. Yes, I’ll be right over.”

\-------------

Harry, deposited on the sofa either seconds or hours ago by the frowning bald man--who had been very mean to the doctors, Harry thinks-- finally gets it.

Not all of it, though. Take the sofa, for instance. The sofa looks and feels like his own sofa. But how could it be when Harry’s not in London, but in Rio on a mission? 

He knows that the only sound his sofa makes is the gentle protest of creaking springs, not this persistent low-grade, golden-hued hum that seems to shoot right to the center of Harry’s brain. He’s almost certain that his sofa isn’t covered in ten-thousand beady, winking black eyes either. 

But none of that really bothers him. 

Because he finally gets it; he finally understands the wood grain of the coffee table.

Harry’s curiosity had first been peaked years ago, when he had taken Mr. Pickles to be fixed. Afterward, higher than a kite on painkillers from the vet's, Mr. Pickles had stared fixedly at the same texture of the cherrywood for three hours, absolutely engrossed.

Harry can hardly blame him, looking back. How could Harry have not seen it?

But he gets it now. His dog had been so fascinated because there are tiny, marvelous people down there. 

So many that he hardly knows where to look. So many that he could spend-- quite possibly has spent-- entire eternities watching their lives play out in miniature within the warm whorls and cartographic lines gently grooving the shiny surface of the low table. 

The bald man returns--possibly from the kitchen but also quiet possibly from complete non-existence-- with a large glass of water. To Harry’s distress, he places this on the table, heedless of the way that the condensation collecting at the surface of the cup could so clearly drown millions. 

That's what the coasters are for, Harry would say aloud if his tongue hadn’t just sprouted tens of tiny insect legs, fastening itself firmly to the roof of his mouth. 

"How are you doing Harry?" The bald man says.

It’s like the sofa: the bald man looks like Harry's Merlin, but clearly cannot be, if only because it seems as if the bald man seems to be able to read his mind.

"I am Merlin," the bald man insists, placing a coaster underneath the glass, to Harry's overwhelming relief.

"You, Harry Hart, where drugged while on assignment in Brazil," He explains. "You seem to be quite talkative, so I’m going to hazard that it was some idiotic attempt at a truth serum.”

That’s ridiculous, because Harry’s not talking at all. 

“Yes,” Merlin insists. “Believe me, you are. The doctors say you're going to have a massive headache in a few hours, but otherwise you'll be perfectly fine. You are sitting on your own couch, in your own home, and I'm looking after you and Mr. Pickles until you're not quite so talkative about the wee tiny table people." 

Mr. Pickles--Harry panics--

"--Has not left your side since you came through the front door. He's at your feet."

Harry looks down at what is definitely, without a doubt, his Mr. Pickles. 

And how nice, Harry thinks, to be safely home. With his best friend and his dog and new insight into the quiet and fascinating lives of the lilliputians secretly inhabiting his furniture. 

Harry thinks that maybe he has said this aloud as well, because Merlin tries to repress a relieved smile-- which, incidentally is a lovely, fizzing shade of electric-blue-- and fails utterly. 

\---------

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Merlin asks over the breakfast table the next morning. 

“Like shit,” Harry mumbles into the--mercifully unpeopled--table from between his folded arms. 

His head is flat against the surface and Mr. Pickles--who hasn’t allowed more than two inches pass between himself and his master since Harry’s return--is curled in his lap as he elaborates: “Like I've dipped my head in paint thinner and spent two hours last evening doing my best to produce a convincing argument that the majority of my housewares were being occupied by tiny men.”

“Try eight hours,” Merlin slides a cup of tea across the table to Harry. “Don’t feel too bad--I thought bringing the Magna Carta into your argument around hour four really made it just that much stronger.”

Harry groans without lifting his head. 

There is a beat of silence before Merlin finally says: “I’m very glad you’re back in the realm of normal sized-people, Harry. You had everyone worried there for a bit, at the hospital.”

“As am I,” Harry props up his head and meets Merlin's eye, “immeasurably glad. I do not like having my inhibitions taken from me, and there are few people I would trust to see me in that state. ”

He wraps his hands around the warmth of the mug: “Thank you Merlin. I fear I'm rather in your debt.”

"Don't be ridiculous," Merlin waves dismissively. "What are friends for, if not to play nursemaid when a clumsy-handed thug working for the largest drug gang in Brazil sends a fellow on an acid trip up beelzebub's arse?"

"A very common work hazard, in our profession," Harry nods with mock sincerity, causing Merlin to snort tea out of his nose--not so much at the joke, but for relief that Harry, dry humor and all, is going to be alright. 

\----------

Merlin supposes that he could leverage the situation to his advantage and get out of pet-sitting Mr. Pickles, guilt free, for the conceivable future. 

He is rather surprised to find he does not want to.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Pickle's perfect day, coincidently, is rather trying for Harry.

Harry often wonders if Mr. Pickles might have been happier in someone else's care; someone with more time and space to afford the animal. Because as much as he loves the frenzied joy with which his dog greets him upon his return--the same for an hour of Harry's absence as it is for a week--he can't help but feel guilty for the absence. As much as he adores the way Mr. Pickles wiggles and jumps and runs crazy, berserker paths all around the first floor of Harry's house--every excitation sublimated into a pure kinetic energy that is a delight to see--he can't help but worry that the dog isn't getting enough attention. Enough exercise. Enough anything.

He needn't have worried. 

He more than provides for the animal, and Mr. Pickles adores Harry with every fiber of his being, which he does his best to express through the ceaseless movements of his tiny body, though they are often an inadequate and rough translation. The days Mr. Pickle spends with Harry are filled with a simple and uncomplicated love, and it is enough.

There are many good days and a handful of better days, but Mr. Pickles' best day goes something like this: 

Mr. Pickles wakes to a strange noise long before the hour he and his Harry usually rise. Because he is a Good Dog, he helpfully alerts Harry to the potential danger. But Harry, like most humans Mr. Pickles has encountered, doesn't grasp the imminent threat presented by the noise and is largely unalarmed, rolling over and groaning into the pillow. 

The noise ceases, but Mr. Pickles is awake and so is his Harry, and what an opportunity this is--to begin the day so early! Harry doesn't immediately grasp what an amazing chance they've been given, so Mr. Pickles argues his point by digging at the pillow to lick with great enthusiasm at Harry's left ear. 

Because Mr. Pickles was such a good dog and woke him up so well, his Harry drops an omelette to the floor for him to eat at breakfast. An entire omelette--just for Mr. Pickles! 

Harry changes his mind right after though, makes an irritate noise and shoes him out of the way. Mr. Pickles doesn't really blame Harry for wanting to share---it is a very good omelette--but he is very confused when Harry throws the omelette into the little basket of rubbish by the door. 

His human is a little daft, sometimes.

But that doesn't matter for long, because then Harry picks up the leash and they go to the dog park. 

"Time for walkies Mr. Pickles," may just be his favorite phrase in the entire world.

Mr. Pickles is digging at the usual spot in the dog park when the most amazing thing occurs. Digging in itself is a joy to Mr. Pickles, but today something new and unexpected happens. He can suddenly see light and smell the scents of spring carried on the fresh air from the other side of the fence, and there is a space where before there had been only dirt. 

Just like that, he is free.

Mr. Pickles decides he must be a very powerful creature, to have such power over the world. Harry must know that too--why else would he try to stop Mr. Pickles digging all the time?

\-----------

Mr. Pickles has a ball of a time playing the new game he and his Harry have invented for themselves.

The game consists of Mr Pickles running just ahead of Harry and then, because Harry is a little slow, stopping and waiting for Harry to catch up. Then Harry pretends to try to grab Mr. Pickles and they start all over again.

Harry yells things like:

"Mr. Pickles, sit!"

"Mr. Pickles, stop! Watch our for that car!"

And:

"You absolute bloody terror, come back here!"

Which Mr. Pickles supposes must be his Harry's way of showing how much he too is enjoying the game, and thinks that Mr. Pickles is such a Good Dog for inventing it. 

It is marvelous.

\-----------

Then, Mr. Pickles gets distracted by a strange and wondrous smell that commands all of his attention. 

Rat, he decides, dead about five days.

He follows his nose into the little park just off the road and finds the body just under a pair of shrubberies.

It's even better than he'd imagined.

But what a pity his Harry isn't here to share in this olfactory nirvana with him!

Because he is a Good Dog, Mr. Pickles decides to take this wonder with him, so that he may share it with Harry just as soon as he finds where his human has wandered off to.

With great enthusiasm, Mr. Pickles rolls into the glorious scent for ten minutes, until he decides that the transfer to his coat is adequate.

He smells divine. 

\-----------

For lunch, he raids the rubbish bins behind the local grocery and eats a nice big steak.

Afterward, he takes a nap in the sunshine.

\-----------

Mr. Pickles really starts to worry about his Harry around mid-afternoon--what if Harry has gotten lost? So he makes his way back to their neighborhood.

On the way, he sees one of the familiar, small human pups in the garden outside of its house. Mr. Pickles decides to goes over to say hello.

He is a little confused when the pup doesn't immediately acknowledge his presence with the customary greeting of a scratch behind the ears, before he notices that the pup's attention is fixated on something not ten feet away.

And surely, the soft cooing noises the pup is making must be sounds of absolute terror. Because there in the grass sits the worst kind of vermin Mr. Pickles has ever known.

A rabbit.

Admittedly, the disgusting abomination is young and small, and not quite so dangerous as it may become if allowed to reach adulthood.

The only thing to do is save the human pup, and Mr. Pickles rushes the creature valiantly. Catches it and quickly vanquishes the horrid beast. 

But the pup must only recognize the danger after it has been removed, because it begins to wail piteously. Mr. Pickles isn't too bothered, because now the tiny human is safe, and that's all that matters.

He congratulates himself on being such a Good Dog and saving the small human pup.

Wouldn't his Harry be proud?

\-----------

As the sun is setting, Mr. Pickles trots up the front walk to his house, and barks at the door to alert Harry to his return. 

There is no response, but no matter. He curls up, happily tuckered out after his long and exciting day, to wait for his Harry to come home. 

\----------

His Harry returns after the sun has set, his approaching footsteps waking Mr. Pickles from sleep.

Mr. Pickles is so excited that, even exhausted as he is, he simply has to run tight, dizzying circles around Harry's feet-- a release valve for the pure joy that has risen in him, lest the feeling grow and grow until he simply explodes. 

"Bloody hell," his Harry says. "What have you rolled in? Is that blood?"

Which is undoubtedly Harry's way of telling Mr. Pickles what a Good Dog he is.

\---------

As much as Mr. Pickles loves his Harry, he thinks the human must be a little odd.

Because instead of appreciating the amazing smells Mr. Pickles has brought back for them both to share, Harry gives him a B-A-T-H.

A B-A-T-H is game that Mr. Pickles doesn't think is very fun. But Harry wants to play, so Mr. Pickles does his best to ensure Harry is just as covered by the soapy water as Mr. Pickles is.

\---------

Mr. Pickles drifts off to sleep curled into Harry's lap--disgustingly clean, but warm and content as Harry gently strokes his head. He decides, back with his Harry after his long adventure, he must be the happiest dog in the world.

"What," Harry mumbles, "am I going to do with you?"

Which must be his Harry's way of telling Mr. Pickles that he feels the same.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry first notices a few grey hairs on Mr. Pickles' muzzle while retrieving his dog after a prolonged and frustrating week of negotiation on the blood-slicked waters off the coast of Somalia. As far as Harry is concerned, the less said about the mission the better--particularly regarding his ill-timed bouts of mal de mer--but he is at least happy that the young duke and his mistress escaped the ordeal unscathed. 

Harry had seen to it that things had not ended so well for the pirates.

"He dug up the neighbor's petunias," Merlin informs Harry as he hands over Mr. Pickles' leash. "And for the life of me, I can't work out why the little lass down the road keeps bursting into tears whenever she catches sight of him."

Mr. Pickles dances in excited circles around the both of them. While undoubtedly adorable, Harry thinks that he should really start discouraging this sort of behavior, steadying Merlin with a hand to the arm before the other man topples over from the leash rapidly tangling around his knees.

Harry deftly scoops up his dog with his other hand, folding the animal into his chest to scratch the spot behind Mr. Pickles ears that always makes the dog's eyes glaze over. 

"You’re apt to kill someone like that, you little monkey," Harry sighs, looking into Mr. Pickles' adoring eyes and thinking about the old wive's adage of teaching old dogs new tricks.

Secretly, Harry isn't sure he would change anything.

\----------

But some things change anyway.

\----------

As Mr. Pickles settles comfortably into his later years, he begins to demonstrate a thoughtful sort of calm that fascinates Harry. 

The dog will sit-- stationary and apparently contemplative-- for hours at the front window, satisfied to watch the world go by without comment. 

Harry buys a second dog bed for this favorite spot when he notices Mr. Pickles seems to be a little stiff now when he shakes himself to his feet after these sessions as the Hart house sentinel. 

\--------

Staying put is not quite so trying a task for the dog these days, which is a change Harry finds he is rather fond of.

Because now Mr. Pickles will lay contentedly, for hours, with his head in Harry's lap while Harry reads. Will sit with his flank flush against Harry's leg when he sits at his desk to work. Will hook his chin or one tiny paw over Harry's ankle with an untroubled little sigh when Harry opts for one of his rare, lazy Sunday lie-ins.

His dog seems happy and content with the world and his place in it. In some small, warm way this makes Harry feel much the same.

\---------

"Hmm," the veterinarian says as she places Mr. Pickles on the scale.

She frowns as she runs her violently purple, neoprene-gloved hands down the dog's flanks.

"He's a bit overweight," She says finally, leveling Harry with the sort of disapproving look that puts Harry in mind of every school marm he’d ever crossed as a lad. "What's his diet like?"

"I have him on dry food--once in the morning and once at night," Harry says, looking appraisingly at his dog; surely Mr. Pickles was more pleasantly chubby than anything else. Certainly not fat.

"Sometimes tables scraps, for a treat," He admits.

"Yes, well that's not good for his health," The veterinarian says, snapping off her gloves into the rubbish bin by the door. "It could shorten his life span."

But that, Harry thinks, is ridiculous.

Because Harry's dog is going to live forever.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it goes.
> 
> (This chapter is less fluffy, so we're going to do this like one of those old school, choose-your-own-adventure books:
> 
> If, like Harry, you believe dogs never die, proceed to chapter 12.
> 
> If you believe that, of course dogs die in a physical sense, but continue to live on in a metaphorical sense, continue below. )

Merlin clears his throat: "It's almost time."

Harry, seated on the floor and seemingly afloat amongst a furry sea of puppies, doesn't appear to hear him.

"Hmm?" He asks, gently pushing away the small, curly poodle trying to lick his face as the German shepherd nibbles at his fingers. 

"For the recruits to chose their dogs," Merlin says, impatient--because why is Harry being so useless? 

And what, for fuck's sake, had compelled the man to let all of the animals out at once--Is Harry trying to drive Merlin out of his mind?

"We need to get this lot back in their kennels and out to the garden," Merlin gestures to the puppies scattered about the tiny room, but mostly orbiting the cross-legged Harry in wobbly, tail-wagging arcs.

The black look on Merlin's face finally does the trick.

"Yes," Harry says, gently disengaging from the dogs and pushing himself to his feet. "Yes, of course."

\--------

It's only later Merlin hears about Mr. Pickles.

"Pancreatitis," Harry spits out the word like it is something putrefying on his tongue.

\-------

Though the dogs are a little late, the rest of recruitment runs as smoothly as it ever does.

Or so Harry hears from Merlin.

Harry spends most of it chasing shadows in Istanbul, before that turns into a miserable three-week segue through Mombasa, which concludes itself by dumping him --dusty and exhausted after a 48 hour slog on foot through unforgiving, hostile territory-- into the scorching desert just outside of Kabul. 

Which is still somehow better than his too-empty, too-quiet house--and Harry is all too cognizant of how bloody depressing that fact is.

Merlin meets him there with the two remaining recruits: Unwin, who Merlin selected personally, and D’Almont, the spoiled scion of one of the Kingsmen's feeder families whom had been put forward by Gawain, his cousin. 

Harry has just enough time with the two potentials to decide that he despises D’Almont-- a brogue-wearing idiot with an ego the size of a blimp-- and that Unwin, in addition to having the makings of a damn fine agent, is one of the most likable men Harry has ever met.

\-------

Then Unwin goes and jumps on a grenade meant for Harry. 

\---------

"I brought Guinness," Merlin calls through the door, holding up two large paper grocery bags when Harry twitches aside the curtain to look through the front window of his London home.

"I don't drink beer," Harry says, but steps aside anyway to let Merlin through to the kitchen.

"Irrelevant," Merlin states flatly, setting the bags on the table with a clinking that suggests Merlin did no just bring Guinness, but all of the Guinness within a twenty kilometer radius.

"When a Kingsman dies, we drink," Merlin explains. "We both know he should have been the next Lancelot, not that vain moron D'almont."

"We're in agreement there," Harry plucks up a bottle to frown at the label. "Why Guinness?"

"I haven't got posh brandy, but this was the lad's favorite drink."

Harry nods, "Out in the garden."

"You take this lot. I'll just get the rest."

\------------

They sit in silence through the first ration of bottles, watching as the sun sinks lower and lower until everything in the small garden is burnished bronze, hypersaturated with color. The only noise is the hushed, tidal sounds of the traffic over the garden wall.

Harry thinks about all the people surrounding them--within touching distance, but completely unaware that Harry and Merlin exist. He thinks about the quiet little lives of his neighbors: the friendly faces who would wave when he used to walk Mr. Pickles on their evening beat around the block. About sweet old Mrs. Pegg with her beef bones and her tabloids. 

Harry thinks about how Mrs. Pegg had probably been poring over one of her articles--a no doubt riveting piece of literature about some beautiful celebrity she would never meet, caught on camera in a glamorous city she would never see--while a brave young man died for king and country and Harry halfway around the world.

A few birds sing, hesitant as the sun dips its toes into the dark horizon and the world spins on.

Poo-tee-weet.

Harry thinks of Vonnegut. About the beautiful, delicate spires of Dresden and all the thousands she kept within her walls--razed to ash.

So it goes. 

And in the face of such loss-- or, Harry supposes, the sacrifice of men and women dedicated to preventing another Dresden-- what else was there to say? 

Except there is so much Harry would like to say. 

\----------

Halfway through the second case of beer, with the sky passing through soft candy floss blues and pinks to settle into a muted dusk, Merlin hunches over and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

And Harry thinks it's like watching a sinkhole gape open in the earth--going from terra firma to the hungry maw of a vast and previously unknown void in the blink of an eye. 

\--------

At the tail end of their beer supply, Merlin mumbles something unintelligible to Harry as he rests his spinning head on Harry's shoulder. 

They have both had far, far too much to drink and communication is not made any easier by the fact that Merlin's Scottish brogue had grown thicker with each bottle.

"What's that?"

"should have let you stay longer with the puppies," Merlin slurs without lifting his head. "If I had known about Mr. Pickles, I would have."

"Don't worry about it."

" 's strange, not having the little guy around."

"Exceedingly," Harry agrees.

"Wassa good dog." 

Harry snorts into his glass. "No he wasn't."

Because Harry had adored the animal--mostly against his better judgement, with a depth he had not known himself capable of-- but even that does not lend the truth enough elasticity for Harry to agree with Merlin's assessment.

Mr. Pickles had barked at all hours. Was, even in his last days, too stubbornly independent to heed any command Harry gave unless he wanted it himself. Had terrorized and frequently ravaged all of the neighborhood's small, adorable animals, more often than not in front of the neighborhood's small and adorable children.

Harry's dog had been bloody awful. 

"You miss him," Merlin murmurs from somewhere around Harry's clavicle.

"With all of my heart."

\---------

Merlin's half certain--and certainly hoping that--he's imagining it when he hears Harry declare, casual as anything: "I'm going to have him stuffed, I think."

\---------

The next morning, Harry leaves Merlin sleeping on the couch and drags his aching head to the local recycling center. There, he digs through the piles of newspaper until he finds what he is looking for--a copy of one of the trashy tabloids Mrs Pegg is so fond of-- from the date of Unwin's death.

He decides to put it up on the wall of his study. 

The block letters of the florid, splashy title--THE JUDGE AND THE RENT BOY--will hang over his head for the next seventeen years.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry pulls Eggsy out of a pickle (jar) and meets J.B.   
> Like all things he adores, Harry resists the urge to spoil both rotten.

Seventeen years later, Harry scrapes Lee Unwin’s boy out of a holding cell at the local police station to sit him down over a pint of beer.

The lad is nothing like his father. 

Garry ‘Eggsy’ Unwin is uncouth and unpolished, with a generalized animosity toward any and all authority figures and the chip on his shoulder to match. Defeatist surrender--to allow the storm of life to cast one about without even reaching for the helm-- is such an ugly thing, Harry thinks.

He finds it just as repugnant here--Eggsy is angry at his place in the world despite all of the opportunities for betterment that have passed through his slackened fingers.

But his gaze is heavy with expectation when it falls on Harry. 

“Talk to me,” Eggsy’s angry words seem to demand. 

“Touch me,” his hand--open and pliable and stretched halfway across the table toward Harry--begs. 

“Help me.” 

Harry rather thinks that he will. 

To call the Unwin lad a little rough around the edges would be akin to suggesting that Hemingway's writing style merely flirted with minimalism, but there is potential in the boy.

Harry can see that while Eggsy is mouthy, he is also headstrong. That far (far) behind Eggsy’s juvenile misconduct lies a bravery that outstrips the borders of his not inconsiderable intelligence. That the lad’s refusal to give up his compatriots in crime belies a deeper, perhaps unshakable vein of loyalty.

And Harry wonders if he will ever find these traits--in man or beast-- anything other than utterly, helplessly endearing.

“Manners,” Harry begins their first lesson, suppressing a smile as he bolts the pub door closed. “Maketh. Man.”

If Harry overdoes it-- showing off as he beats Dean’s thugs into a well-deserved, bloody pulp--it is only a little.

Harry has always tended toward indulgence.

\----------

Before J.B. meets Eggsy, he meets Harry.

J.B. had been born and spent all of his short life in a cozy, comfortable house in the suburban sprawl just outside of London. At seven weeks, he had been plucked away from the familiar, squirming bodies of his brothers and sisters, placed in a small dark box and emerged from it somewhere else entirely--somewhere new and strange and terrifying, all alone.

But he had been drawn from his kennel by large, gentle hands.

“A pug, Merlin?” J.B. can feel the rumble of the man’s voice from where he is cradled to Harry’s warm chest. “He’s so small.”

“Says the man who picked the terrier.”

Harry scratches just behind J.B.’s ears, soft as anything, and for the first time since being taken from his home, J.B. feels safe.

\--------

J.B. adores Eggsy more than anything, but thinks that Eggsy can be a little strange sometimes.

For example, J.B. often brings Eggsy his favorite toy--a small, violently green stuffed rabbit he always carries carefully in his jaws--and offers it to Eggsy as a symbol of their deep bond and profound friendship.

Eggsy often responds by chucking it across the room.

Harry, who had given J.B the toy in the first place, understands. 

“Thank you,” He tells J.B. when the pug places it in his lap one day while Eggsy is out training. 

He doesn't throw the rabbit anywhere, just scratches J.B behind the ears. J.B. knows Harry will eventually let J.B. up on the sofa if he stares up and wags his stubby little tail long enough--even though Eggsy says he isn't allowed.

Harry understands.

\---------

J.B. tries very hard to be the bulldog Eggsy wanted, but even his best efforts fall far too short.

His legs are decidedly stubby, and sometimes his squat, squashed face makes it difficult to breath when Eggsy decides they need to go for one of their long runs with the other dogs and their humans. 

He is absolutely mortified when, on the longest of these miserable ventures, Eggsy actually has to scoop J.B. up to carry him in his tactical vest for the last leg of the run. 

\--------

Not long after this humiliation and for reasons J.B. doesn’t entirely understand, Harry decides to spend a lot of time laying in bed, motionless, with strange, noisy contraptions attached to him. It must be important, J.B. decides, because Harry is so smart.

Eggsy seems very worried, though. He doesn’t leave Harry’s side for a long time, spending every minute that can be spared from training hovering at the bedside.

J.B. spends most of this time curled up at the end of Harry’s bed, well within petting distance in case Eggsy or Harry suddenly decide a good scratch is in order.

A few times, when the three of them are alone, Eggsy slumps over J.B, tenting the dog in his arms and just laying there for a while. Holding J.B. close.

The first time Eggsy does this, he makes one or two little noises like J.B. made those first few nights away from his mother and brothers and sisters. 

And maybe, J.B. thinks, he doesn’t have to be a bulldog for Eggsy.

Maybe he can just be J.B.


	13. Chapter 13

Exhausted after a long day of reconnaissance evaluations with the other recruits, Eggsy is torn between amusement and concern when he finds Harry and J.B. in the study. 

The amusement stems from finding the man seated on the floor, playing with Eggsy’s dog with the abandon of a child. The concern from the fact that this is Harry--unflappable superspy Harry, with his perfect, toffish clothes --and this new development could very well be a sign that the man has utterly lost the plot . 

Definitely lost the bloody plot, Eggsy decides as Harry growls--actually growls--at J.B. 

The dog prances around Eggsy’s mentor, looking as though like he might just implode with glee. Eggsy tries and fails to contain a snort of laughter.

Harry’s fondness for J.B. is evident in the way he treats the dog: Harry smuggles J.B. toys, lets the dog on all the furniture, and puts up with the little hairball when he’s being an over-exuberant piece of work. All when he thinks Eggsy’s not looking. 

But Eggsy’s not blind, just unsure what that says about the way Harry treats him. 

“Eggsy,” Harry greets him without turning, wholly unselfconscious. 

“Harry.”

Eggsy settles down beside him, knocking their shoulders together as he bares his teeth at J.B., who absolutely fucking loses it. 

\-------

It’s a puzzle Eggsy finds himself worrying at later, one night on his cot in the cavernous quarters he and Roxy have all to themselves. 

Part of the problem, Eggsy decides, is that he can’t be sure how much of Harry is left to Eggsy after his father’s debt is subtracted from the equation. 

Eggsy tries not to think too hard about why he is so very compelled to steal as much as Harry’s time as he can, greedy and unsure why he needs it so badly, just that he does. 

Eggsy, being Eggsy, cheats. 

Light fingered as any boy that grew up rough on the wrong side of Rowley Way-- neighborhood motto: come because you took a wrong turn on the way to Regents Park, stay because you were robbed blind and left for dead in a dumpster--he steals little pieces of Harry. Pens from his desk, a tie Harry tossed after a mission gone awry had irreparably singed the handsome silk, his attention.

It still throws him when Harry gives Eggsy things freely, because he’s not used to that. Harry opened the doors to the Kingsman estate for Eggsy when the rest of the lot looked at him like he was something they had tracked in on the soles of their shoes. Harry puts up with Eggsy when he’s being an absolute tosser.

And Eggsy has no idea why.

\-----

Then Harry takes him to be fitted for his suit, wearing an expression that looks very much like pride, it makes something in Eggsy’s chest go warm and expansive.

Well fuck, Eggsy thinks, because there’s the other part of the problem.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J.B. is not a very good guard dog, but Harry loves him anyway.

The first person Harry talks to after Kentucky is Merlin, who does nothing more than roll his eyes when Harry theatrically steps out of the shadows. 

Harry is a little disappointed.

“Of course I knew,” Merlin says, leaving the ‘you daft bastard’ unspoken but heavily implied in the scowl he levels at Harry. “I tried to plan your funeral--”

Harry’s heart sinks: “Merlin--”

“--and they were rather reluctant to tell me what had happened to you--your body I mean,” Merlin cuts him off and turns his attention back to the computer monitor, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze. “After that, it was simply a matter of bypassing their ‘security’ measures--laughable-- which I did a week ago.”

“I’m sorry Merlin,” Harry lays a hand on Merlin's shoulder before adding: “It means a lot to me, that you found me.”

“I thought you were dead, Harry ” Merlin says without turning. 

The brutal truth of the matter, Harry thinks, is that the day will come when Harry won’t return from a mission. That his best friend will have to put Harry in the ground; will accept casseroles and condolences from Harry’s neighbors--from strangers who never knew him.

Harry wonders if Merlin will show up at Eggsy’s door with all of the gin and olives in London. If they’ll have a wake for him in the garden as the world spins on.

Harry spins Merlin’s chair around.

“What--” Merlin’s baffled protest is cut off by Harry pulling him up into a tight hug.

“The fuck Harry?” 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Merlin, awkward, pats him on the back. “It’s good to have you back Harry, though the eyepatch will take some getting used to.”

“I was considering a tactical upgrade,” Harry suggests, releasing Merlin and lifting a hand to the patch, “perhaps one that shoots lasers?”

“Lasers are a distinct possibility,” Merlin nods. “ And don’t worry, Harry, you can still have your dramatic reveal--I haven’t told anyone else. I wanted to be absolutely certain.”

“Eggsy?”

“Eggsy will probably punch you in the face. ” 

\----------

The second person Harry talks to is technically the cab driver, who Harry directs to his old address in London. 

The third is Eggsy.

\---------

He finds Eggsy fast asleep and curled into a tight little ball around one of Harry’s old shirts in the master bedroom, J.B.--not much of a guard dog, that one--snoring at his feet. 

The dog finally notices Harry’s presence when Harry is not five feet from the bed.

J.B, bless his oversized heart, begins to growl like he could actually intimidate anyone, let alone a Kingsman who has been to hell and back--in more than a strictly metaphorical sense, given Harry’s personal opinions on that particular area of the States--and wants nothing more than the comfort of his own bed. 

Harry is rather pleased to see Eggsy reaching under his pillow--no doubt for a weapon--before he’s even opened his eyes. 

But that won’t do.

“Eggsy,” Harry straddles the thrashing Eggsy on the bed, catching the boy’s wrists before he can finish the job Valentine started. “Eggsy, stop. It’s me. It’s Harry.”

Eggsy blinks up at him for several seconds before his face crumples in on itself. Harry releases his wrists. 

Considering that Eggsy had thought him dead, the exchange goes considerably better than Harry had hoped--Eggsy only punches him once and spits profanity at him for barely ten minutes. 

“--and if you ever go and get yourself killed again--you absolute tosser--” Eggsy concludes, winding himself down from the great heights to which he had ascended, “I will drag you out of the ground with my own two hands hands and beat you into oblivion with that great bloody bottle of Napoleonic brandy--because I drank that shite for you, you enormous bastard.” 

Eggsy pauses for breath, looking off-balance as he glares down at Harry, who has not moved since Eggsy’s blow put him on the floor.

Harry reaches out and pulls Eggsy down to him. Feels the tension melt out of Eggsy's body as he fists his hands into the material of the jacket on Harry’s back, loose and pliable in Harry’s arms.

“I hate brandy,” Eggsy sighs into Harry’s shoulder. 

Harry allows himself to be pulled to the mattress, where he is kept well within arm’s reach for the rest of the night.

And the following night. And the one after that. And for many nights after.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J.B. collects sticks. Harry likes the way his and Eggsy's shoes look, mixed together, in the entrance hall.

Harry pauses before entering the house after his long Sunday walk with J.B.

“Ah, J.B.,” He tells the dog. “Now what do we do with sticks?”

J.B. looks at up Harry as if he has no idea what stick Harry could possibly be talking about. Certainly not the branch J.B. had carefully selected--at least twice as long as the dog, comically enough-- and carried for the better part of their journey. 

“Not in the house,” Harry insists.

With a little sigh, J.B obediently leaves his souvenir on the growing pile by the door.

“Good boy.”

Harry opens the door and toes off his shoes, leaving them beside Eggsy’s on the mat, before unclipping the dog from the lead. 

J.B. trails behind him as Harry makes his way the kitchen, where he puts on the kettle for tea. He looks out into the back garden, where Eggsy is doing something violent to the flowerbeds which apparently required him to divest himself of his shirt. Not that Harry particularly minds, but he’s half-certain the boy rather enjoys trying to scandalize the neighbors on Harry’s behalf.

With a snort, Harry takes the mug of tea over to the sofa, where he settles down with the paper. 

J.B. follows him there too. 

And Harry could swear that the dog pauses for just a second too long to examine the wood grain coffee table before looking up at Harry with huge eyes, tail wagging. Expectant

“Alright you,” Harry says finally, patting the sofa beside him. “Up you get.”

Eggsy won’t like it, but Harry loves the way J.B. settles against him and sits contentedly while Harry reads. The same way he loves the way his and Eggsy’s shoes sit side by side on the mat by the door in the entry hall.

In a little while, Harry knows, Eggsy will come in from the garden. They will have words about letting J.B. up on the furniture. Again.

Harry will probably just pull Eggsy down on the sofa to join them. Again.

Because Harry knows better than anyone how tortuously short the span of a lifetime is. And shorter still the time the thread of one’s life is entwined, side by side and curled together, with the things one loves. 

Harry closes his eyes contentedly, trying to etch all of the the small and pleasant domesticity of this moment into his memory as he scratches J.B. behind the ears. 

It is with a smile on his face that he hears the kitchen door open and Eggsy come in.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading--hope you enjoyed it!   
> (Hug your dogs for me, alright?)


End file.
